


toward daylight we run

by SparkleMoose



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Past Brainwashing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Those Thoughts Are Only in Passing and Not Descriptive but. Still there., Time Travel Fix-It, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27588704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkleMoose/pseuds/SparkleMoose
Summary: When Titus died - as Glauca, as an Imperial General - he didn't have any regrets.When he wakes up again on a beach in Galahd with one of his Glaives who died as a result of his actions, he is suddenly full of regrets.
Relationships: Titus Drautos | Glauca/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	1. poorest players on the stage

**Author's Note:**

> aka that time travel titus au no one wanted but youre getting anyway. feat an oc because i cant stop making them.

Titus knows war. He has fought and bled on a countless number of battlefields. Titus has stained his hands red with the blood of allies and enemies; with the blood of those who thought they could trust him and even now, even as he lies dying next to the man he thought of as a brother he cannot bring himself to regret his choices. Everyone in war believes they are on the side of the just, that they are virtuous and proud. That they are on the side of what is right and Titus loathes it. He loathes the way his Imperial comrades had looked down on his people, how they spat at the feet of those in the lands they conquered and how they thought that what they were doing was just. There was no justice in this war, only slaughter. The blood of soldiers and innocent dying everything in the world a bloody red and nothing they could do would stop it.

Titus had a god once. He had a god he prayed to and believed in. One he came to know from his mother - a Galahdian woman with a wicked grin - a woman who prayed and whispered warsongs under her breath. She had believed in Ramuh, Astral of the Dead and Guide to the Lost. He Who Judged let not the actions of his fellows dictate his actions, Ramuh was said to be side with those seeking justice against the ones who wronged them, for though the god was one of rain and plague he was also that of justice and righteous rebellion. Titus had believed once, that Ramuh would aid Lucis against the Empire that threatened to scorch their home.

He was wrong. There was no retribution for the blood that spilled from the corpses littering the stress of his home. The wrath of the Judge did not strike Imperial forces down as they killed his mother and left her wife a widow. Titus had to struggle to get his other mom out of town before the Imperial forces found the two of them and he will never regret the oath of vengeance, his mom had swore then, will never forget his mom telling him that she would burn the Empire to the ground for what they did to them.

She never got the chance, his mom with her brilliant red hair and fierce eyes, the bullet she took for Titus leaving her arm ridden with an infection the doctor Titus had dragged to see her had to amputate her left arm to save her life. His mom never got the chance to see her vengeance through, living to an old age in Insomnia while Titus still worked for a family he blamed for everything, and if Titus has a regret, it’s that he never gave his mom the Emperor’s head on a platter.

If Titus is honest (a rarity; he has not been honest in a long time) he would say that he cannot remember when his bitterness toward the Caelums turned to hate. He would admit that he had held onto hope in the cell he had been trapped in inside the depths of an Imperial base, he would admit that he thought someone would at least try to come for him. By the time someone had come, by the time Cor had blown up half the base and dragged Titus out while swearing at him Titus’ shaky loyalty to Insomnia had fallen. The only reason Titus had survived, after all, is because he had agreed to the terms given to him. Looking back, Titus cannot tell whether his acceptance of the terms was because he had lost faith in Lucis or simply because he had been tired, tired of being the guinea pig for the scientists that wouldn’t leave him alone He had been tired of being treated like nothing and perhaps a part of him had thought that if acted in accord with the Empire he would at least be afforded a shred of respect.

The Imperial Council still treated him like a dog, even after he became a General, and now, as Titus lies on a beach and blinks up at the stars above him, he cannot remember why he let them. He was the strongest among the remaining human soldiers, he could have cut them down and waded through their blood like it was naught but the river he used to swim in as a boy.

Titus does not regret his actions, not for the murder of his King, not the fall of Insomnia and the countless dead at his actions but now, with the knowledge that he had died, with the ability to think more clearly than he has in ages, Titus thinks that perhaps his anger had been misdirected. That the moment he had been let into the same room as Iedolas he should have taken Niflheim’s Emperor’s head.

He hadn’t.

Titus isn’t sure why. Titus isn’t sure why, just as he isn't sure why there is an anger building in him. Why the sudden onslaught of fury leaves him breathless and aching for fight. Just like he isn’t sure how or why he is here, stranded on a beach with gulls crying in the distance when Titus knows he has died. He had felt proud, when Nyx had killed him, had almost smiled at the other man who had been willing to die for the land he had called home, just like Titus had taught him.

For Hearth and Home, Titus thinks as stands in the sand. A wry grin crosses his face as the words echo in his mind, he had believed those words once, had thought he would do anything for Lucis. For his family and home, yet still he had turned traitor, had cut down men and women he trained, had let his Glaives kill each other on his command. The thought that he had made brothers and sisters turn against each other leaves Titus with a sick feeling in stomach. He isn’t sure if it’s regret.

A groan from his left has him reaching for a sword that isn’t there, has him reaching for magic he no longer has, as he spins to look at the source of the noise. There, lying on her back is someone Titus thinks he knows. The young woman in the sand looks like one of his Glaives and Titus feels his heart jump to his throat as he stares at her; silent and watchful as she blinks open her eyes and stares dazed at the night sky. For a moment, Titus thinks of Glaive Wyrmwood, she had been a brave woman, kind and daring yet an excellent soldier still. Wyrmwood had transferred to the Glaive from the Crownsguard and had done her all to prove that herself to her new comrades. 

She loved all of them, Titus thinks, his mind distant as he recalls how whenever a Glaive had a birthday she’d show up with some sort of baked good. Regret twists his stomach into knots, makes him nauseous and still Titus cannot fathom why he regrets the death of that one woman. Why he suddenly feels like heaving at the thought that his soldiers, those who would have died for him, turned against each other at his word. Titus had known what he was doing and yet back then regret hadn’t crossed his mind even once. His mind had been blissfully blank back then, his focus on Insomnia’s fall rather than the consequences of his actions. Now there is a woman in front of him who can’t be more than nineteen and yet still she managed to stir memories of one of his Glaives that most assuredly died at the hands of his traitors and dump regret on Titus’ shoulders like a boulder crashing down from a mountain and Titus hates the woman lying on the beach for daring to make him think of what he had done.

The woman blinks once more before she seems to realize something, her gold eyes going wide with shock as she jerks to her feet and her hand goes to grasp her throat, as though she is trying to stop herself from bleeding out. As though she had been sliced open and left for dead. The panic in her eyes moves something in Titus and he steps forward despite being unsure how or even whether or not he even could offer comfort. The woman’s eyes flicker toward him, and Titus is uncomfortably reminded of Ardyn’s eyes. The same shade of gold stares back out at him from the face of someone young and nonthreatening and still Titus can’t shake off the feeling that Ardyn is there, watching him through another's eyes.

The woman drops her hand from her throat, and it is then Titus sees the lightning marks encircling her throat like a collar. Twice-born, Titus thinks, remembering his mother talking about them once, Did she just wake up? It would just be Titus’ luck to be stuck with someone who just regained their memories of a past life.

The woman notices Titus watching her and eyes him like she’s a soldier assessing a threat. Her gold eyes darting across his face and recognition flashing through her eyes as a scowl finds its way to her face.

“Who are you?” Her voice is low, raspy from disuse. Fitting, Titus thinks, that she sounds that way with the lightning encircling her throat.

“It’s impolite to ask a strangers name without giving your own in return,” Titus says dryly. Crossing his arms across his chest, Titus looks at the woman with a raised eyebrow as her scowl deepens.

“Morgan Wyrmwood,” The woman says and Titus’ heart stops. You’re dead, he thinks, You should be dead. Those thoughts do nothing to stop the swarm of guilt settling in his heart and mind as he gazes at a woman that his actions should have killed. 

The woman continues speaking, not caring about Titus’ inner turmoil. 

“Now,” Morgan, the Glaive who should be dead, says, “Who are you?” There distaste in her tone, as though he reminds her of someone distasteful. And she should, he thinks, the edge of hysteria creeping into the thought, I’m responsible for your death.

The more logical part of Titus’ brain kicks into gear, forcing him to step away from the situation to compartmentalize and plan his next action. Morgan doesn’t recognize him, which means either she’s forgotten him - unlikely given she remembers her name - or Titus himself has changed enough that she’s not sure who he is. For a moment Titus thinks of lying to her, of giving her a false name and leaving her there on the beach.

You killed her, a voice in his head tells him, you killed her and her brothers and sisters in arms. You owe it to her to tell her the truth.

“You know who I am, Glaive Wyrmwood,” Titus says and something in his heart lurches uncomfortably as he watches her face twist with hate. It’s nothing less than he deserves, he knows, he had her comrades turn against each other. He had ordered the death of all those who did not turn against Insomnia and she was a casualty. Staring at her now, Titus can remember seeing those fierce gold eyes glazed over with death and he wants to mourn her. He wants to mourn all those he lost, all the lives he had taken in his time as Glauca.

Was it worth it? he thinks as he looks into the eyes of someone who trusted him once, Was it worth it to watch Insomnia fall?

No, he realizes in the same instant Morgan takes a step toward him, it wasn’t it. Titus lost everything due a moment of past weakness. He had been weak when he had been captured by Niflheim and the Empire had taken advantage of it. Titus had been weak, and it cost him everything.

“Cap-” Morgan catches herself, grief a heavy burden on her shoulders as they sag with the weight of what she’s been through, “Glauca,” she says and Titus flinches as though he’s been struck, an involuntary reaction that has him cursing himself as something like vicious delight echoes in Morgan’s eyes.

“Glauca,” she says again and this time Titus doesn’t flinch, “Give me a reason not to kill you.” There’s a pleading note in her voice, as though she doesn’t want to kill him. As though Morgan doesn’t want to believe what she already knows to be true.

“I can’t,” Titus says, crossing his arms over his chest as Morgan comes closer until she’s standing arms length away from him.

“You know the punishment for treason.”

“Death or banishment.” Titus smiles thinly. “You’ve not the power to enforce either.”

Morgan laughs. Dry and dark and when she smiles at him it’s full of teeth, her gold eyes glowing in the night around them.

Like a daemon, Titus thinks.

“Don’t I?” Morgan asks, amusement dry in her voice. “When you died, dear General, what did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“All the luck goes to fools then,” Morgan says bitterly, the smile twisting her face into something ugly, “Did you know that King Somnus had a brother?”

Titus feels his mouth goes dry. In between one breath and the next Morgan is in front of him, the ringing sound of a warp echoing between them as she holds a blade to Titus’ throat.

“I have all the power I need,” Morgan says quietly as she stares up at him with those damned eyes of hers, “I could make you suffer. I could strip the skin from your body and put your head on a pike as a warning to others. I should. I should kill you in the worst ways for daring to lay a hand on what was mine.”

Titus almost growls at that.

“The Glaive wasn’t yours.”

Morgan laughs short and soft. “Wasn’t it?” she asks, “Weren’t they my children? Weren’t they my brothers and sisters? Didn’t I love them like family? A family that you, the one we looked up to, the one we thought we could trust, tore apart? Weren’t they mine just as much as they were yours?”

“Wyrmwood,” Titus says, the blade she holds against his throat nicking it when he speaks, “They were mine.” There is a possessiveness in Titus’ voice combined with a grief that he can’t hide. There is something dark and wanting when he tells her that the Glaive were his. That she was one of his.

Titus knows there can be no redemption for what he’s done, that he will never find peace in Etro’s Garden. That Ramuh will not let him enter. Titus knows this. But he also knows that the part of him that was still him, that was still purely Titus and not Glauca thought the Glaive was his and Titus will not let another lay claim to his soldiers so easily.

“You lost any right to them,” Morgan tells him, “When you turned them against each other.” She smiles at him, sharp and unsettlingly. “Wouldn’t it be fitting to end your life by the hand of one you’ve betrayed?”

Do it, Titus wants to tell her, Do it. A part of him thinks he doesn’t deserve to life, not after what he’s done, not after the weakness he’s shown and yet-

And yet he doesn’t want to die here.

One of his hands comes up and grabs the wrist of the hand that is holding the knife to his throat.

“You’re going to let me go,” Titus tells Morgan who looks seconds away from setting him on fire, “You are going to let me go, and then you are going to go and play princess in Insomnia and forget I ever existed.”

Morgan snarls at him, teeth flashing and tries to rip her hand out of Titus grip, but Titus has always been stronger than her and his grip does not falter until he feels heat coming from the hand that Morgan is using to scratch him.

Titus swears. Letting go of Morgan, causing the woman to lose her balance and fall ass first into the sand.

“Asshole,” Morgan calls him as she stands and wipes sand off her jeans, “Dick.”

“Bitch.”

“Princess Bitch,” Morgan corrects him, “At least get my title right.”

Titus rolls his eyes and turns from her, a risk he knows, but he also knows that Morgan is too honorable to try and attack him while his back is turned. He’s proven right after he takes a few steps and while she follows him she doesn’t attack him.

Titus feels his brow twitch at the silence. The sky above them darkens and before Morgan or Titus can curse the rain pouring from the sky a lightning crashes into the beach around them.

Titus hears Morgan swear and at the same time he feels a weight in his hand. Greatsword, his mind supplies as his body automatically moves to accommodate the weight.

Why the fuck, Titus thinks, Does he have a greatsword? The glare from the lightning fades, and Titus looks at the sword that was thrust into his hand and his heart sinks at the glowing purple edges on the black sword.

Behind him, Morgan curses and yet Titus spares her no thought, instead focused on the curve of the blade, on the way it sings in his hands as though it was made for him. Titus has never been a religious man, and yet here he thinks that this is either a blessing or a curse from the Storm Astral.

Why? he asks silently as he looks to the sky in the pouring rain, Why show your grace, your mercy, now?

There is no answer.

Titus didn’t expect one.

Behind him, he is vaguely aware of Morgan's stunned silence. She knows what the sword means, Titus thinks and turns his head to see her gripping a spear that glows red, she knows.

And she knows I'm unworthy of a trial for forgiveness.


	2. city of ruin

Titus hates. He hates the woman in front of him, hates her and her spear and her magic. He hates Morgan more than he has a right to, more than he believes he should. The rational part of his mind telling him that she doesn’t deserve his hate, that she is not the Lucis Caelum that wronged him.

The other part of his brain sees her and remembers, remembers what he had done, remembers his time spent in a cage in Niflheim. In labs and on autopsy tables. He remembers and he hates that she reminds him of this. Of his flaws and the worst parts of him. Titus looks at Morgan and he wants to kill her.

Kingslayer he is already, what does it matter if he adds the blood of another royal to his hands? He already wades through rivers of gore with each step he takes, Morgan a steady and seething presence behind him. She hates him as well, he knows, she hates that Titus had taken what she thought was hers away from her. Yet they are stuck together, not out of worry, not out of love nor loyalty, but because they are two of a kind here. Trapped in bodies far too young for them and convinced that should they die no one else but the person next to them will get to strike that final blow.

There is a horrid comfort in that, Titus finds. The idea that Morgan will kill him if he steps out of line is more comforting than the sword on his back, more comforting than the idea that he might have a second chance. He has no desire to prove himself, no desire to try and right his wrongs. Titus knows what he has done, knows his crimes as well as the back of his hands. He knows there is no redemption for him. But if this gift - if the power Ramuh has bestowed upon him allows him to rip the head from Iedolas’ neck then it will have been worth it.

Titus is not a good man, cannot remember a time where he could earnestly call himself that, but if he can kill the Emperor of Niflheim then perhaps he can bring some form of peace to those who gave him their lives.

* * *

The spear is new and yet it slides easily into her armiger as though it was made to blend and meld with her magic.

Given it’s source, that doesn’t seem unlikely.

Morgan spares a glance at Titus, his face impassive as it has always been and yet without his scars and wrinkles lining his face he looks more like a surly teenager than someone who would one day be an Imperial General. He looks like a child, and Morgan feels a surge of anger in her as she thinks of what he has done.

He cannot be redeemed for it, she thinks, glancing at the sword Titus carries on his back. He cannot be redeemed for the fall of a city, for the blood that stains his every step. He cannot be redeemed or forgiven and she does not think that he can learn either.

Titus is Titus.

Titus is Glauca, and Morgan cannot think of him without feeling anything other than hate.

* * *

Morgan doesn’t dare call herself kind. Perhaps others do, perhaps others see the person she tries to be. Maybe they see a kind woman, an honorable woman, someone who would not hesitate to give her life for another. They would be wrong, for all that Morgan tries to project the image of kindness she knows herself better than anyone else; and Morgan knows that she cannot be called kind.

If she can call herself anything, it’s selfish. She cannot help but latch onto people, onto cities and places and things and call them hers. Morgan can’t help but take and take and take and she cannot recall a time she has ever given anything back equal to what she had taken. She’s selfish despite what her mothers family thought, and she has never had anything to give that felt like it amounted to the cost of what she had claimed as hers. Her mother called it love, said that all of them were like that, were selfish and wanting and that their love was enough to save them. But Morgan has always privately that this is a personal failing of hers; she has always tried to be kind in an effort to offset her selfish habit of thinking of people and places as hers without their permission. 

Insomnia is not hers, Lucis isn’t hers, she is not royalty, has no gold blood in her veins that declares her so. She has no right to claim Lucis and it’s people as hers. Yet the moment she had set foot onto the Mainland she had felt something in her shift, had felt something in her roar to life before it quieted down again.

Mine, Morgan had thought, This is mine.

But it wasn’t it belonged to someone else. A line of kings and queens that Morgan had thought she had no connection to.

Then Insomnia fell, then she watched as a city that was hers but wasn’t began to fall apart. Morgan had watched her brothers and sisters in arms turn against each other and all she could think was that it was wrong. That those she had claimed as her own had no right to fight against each other. That this is not what she had fought and bleed for, that this is not what her Glaives had died for. Morgan had hesitated in striking down her comrades and it had cost her her life.

She regrets it. She regrets not being able to strike down those that had ripped themselves from her grasp. Morgan regrets not being able to go back and watch those who had turned against her and hers bleed and choke. She has never had the illusion that she was a tame thing, something in her blood always calling for vengeance against those who dared to take from her. Over the years she had learned to channel that fire into something productive, into the urge to better herself so that she had the option of tearing down those who thought to steal from her. Morgan knows that at some point she will have to let those she has claimed go, that she will let them go if they demand it but the thought of losing them still drags its teeth across her soul and leaves scars in it’s wake.

Morgan’s mother Raven had called her a dragon. Something proud and terrible and something that hates losing what it thinks of as it’s hoard. 

When Morgan had stood at the feet of her mother’s spectral form and the dozens around her she thought that she finally understood why.

Her family was royalty, was born to the man who was healer and demon both. Morgan’s family had the blood of kings and queens and yet they hadn’t dared to make themselves known, hadn’t dared to present themselves to their sister line for fear of what would happen should Bahamut and his Blessed turn their gaze upon them.

Blood of the Dragon, she thinks as she gazes at Titus who sits across their meager campfire from her, Delight in the slaughter. Morgan would delight in Titus’ death she knows, she knows that it would bring her nothing but joy to slice through skin and sinew and watch Titus pay for what he has done but the part of her that’s dragon and fire demands that she stay her blade.

Demands that she ensure Titus know that he belongs to her. Titus may no longer be her Captain, may have been a traitor for as long as Morgan was in the Glaive but he is still hers, the irrational part of her says, still hers and she cannot let him go and get himself killed by anyone other than her.

Titus stares at her, eyes cold but burning with something Morgan has never seen before, and she cannot help but grin at him. Her smile is sharp, with too many teeth showing for it to be anything other than a threat.

“Your life belongs to me,” she tells him, “That sword? Doesn’t matter. You’re life is mine, and it’s to me you have to prove your worth.”

“Here I thought Ramuh was The Judge,” Titus says, tone dry and short as his gaze sharpens when it lands on her spear; ruby red and glinting in firelight, “And what of you? Who does your life belong to?”

Morgan thinks of Bahamut, of the blood she bears. She thinks of the damage The Warlord has already caused and can feel the air around her crackle with magic.

She reels it back in and speaks before Titus can question it. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she tells him, “The one who burdened my line will die.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“Because I am.”

* * *

The more time Titus spends with Morgan, the more he realizes that she is completely untrained in the emotional aspects of her magic. She knows how to use it, knows how to weave spells and access her armiger. Morgan knows how to warp and phase through objects and enemies and yet it appears the two of them have been relying far too much on her Glaive training to guide her through the use of her magic.

There is no emotion tied to the magic given to the Glaives. There is only logic, only a set of rules to follow as you weave your spells. There is no need to control the rush of anger or the fear they feel in battle as their magic does not respond to it. Lucis Caelum’s however, are a different beast. Their magic is tied to their very being, to their mind and their emotions and Titus still clearly recalls the day where he saw Regis Rage. The then Prince’s eyes had gone a brilliant, glaring blue as the ground under him cracked and rattled with the force of his magic. The air had been full of aether, had caused friend and foe alike to drop to their knees and Regis had been cold throughout it, had rained destruction down upon his enemies without a second thought. 

The Prince had waded through blood as though he belonged on a battlefield and not in a throne room, and in that moment, Titus had been ready to call the prince a monster.

He has never forgotten that moment. Has never forgotten the ease with which Regis had slaughter his way through an army before his retinue had calmed him and he collapsed.

Morgan has no retinue, no one to calm her should she Rage. Titus looks at her, looks at her and thinks on her declaration that he belongs to her. The thought of belonging to anyone makes him bristle, makes him want to murder the one who dared to lay their claim upon him. He belongs to no one but himself; even if that feels like a lie.

He will not kneel to another king.

But Morgan needs someone to at least try and teach her how to corral her emotion attuned magic, and Titus is the only one here.

He glances at her, and is once again struck by how young she is. Her face free of the worry lines that had gathered there. Her eyes free of the dark bags under them from the countless sleepless nights she had endured during her time as a Glaive.

She looks like someone Titus would have regretted killing once.

Titus hates her even more for that. But she is a danger, and needs to know.

“Wyrmwood,” Titus says, and her gold eyes narrow at him, “If you lose control. I will kill you.” Something vindictive and gleeful passes through Morgan’s face and she laughs at him.

He toys with the idea of killing her then and there.

“I don’t doubt you will,” she says, and Titus cannot help but wonder why that makes him feel guilty.

(He knows why.

He doesn’t want to admit it.)

* * *

They travel for two days before they come across a sign and Titus recognizes it. A single flame is etched into a sign post pointing east while a sprig of lavender points west.

Morgan raises her brow and laughs.

“Khara or Furia,” she spins around and taunts him, “Which way should we go, Titus?” The grin on her lips tells him that she is not leaving him.

“Don’t you have family to wonder about.”

“My mother is dead by this time,” Morgan informs him, “Which way do we go, former Captain of mine?”

Titus does not want to go to Clan Furia territory. Does not want to face his mothers clan after everything he’s done.

Can he trust himself not to slaughter them?

He does not know.

He wants to find out.

“Furia,” he says, and they head east.


End file.
